


Changing Channells

by Eat_Sleep_Write_Repeat



Category: Youtube RPF
Genre: Gen, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2017, Outside Xbox, Outside Xtra - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-31 04:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eat_Sleep_Write_Repeat/pseuds/Eat_Sleep_Write_Repeat
Summary: 2017 and it's been years since a law was passed dictating the eradication of all supernatural beings, regardless of species. Those who have managed to stay under the radar play a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse; even more at risk are those who are simply unaware of their heritage.This is the situation Mike Channell finds himself in. A shapeshifting half demon, Mike stands accused of the most abhorrent crime of all: the brutal murder of a human. Facing execution, Mike is offered a chance to redeem himself by accepting a place amongst the Reapers, a gang of convicts-turned-bounty hunters tasked with killing their own kind.But trying to juggle his new job with his regular one and maintaining the pretence of his humanity is proving to be a struggle, and it's only a matter of time until he discovers just how close to home his duties will take him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this came about after a conversation with a friend about the Supernatural episode of the same name, which occurred as I happened to be watching Show of the Week. What started as the idea for a silly crackfic based on a punny surname turned into what you're about to read and what I am attempting to win NaNo with this year. Obviously this is just for fun, I mean no harm or malice. Outside Xbox/Xtra are amongst my favourite channels on YouTube, and I have a lot to thank them for (go subscribe, you won't regret it!).

_Not daring a look behind her, she contemplates her impending doom with the calmness that accompanies true terror. She runs but she knows it’s futile: it’s got at least a foot on her, and much longer legs. Even if she was still the runner she had been as a child there was no way she could’ve outpaced it, not with its supernatural bloodlust._

_Still, she runs, cursing her decision not to take up the offer of sharing a cab home with her friend. For the sake of saving a few quid, she’s now going to lose her life. She considers trying to call someone. Her friend, the police, the Reapers._

_She’s done everything right. She read the fat package of literature issued to all out-of-towners moving to London. She’d committed the Reapers' contact details to memory. She’d heeded he warnings about solo travel at night. She’d settled with the knowledge that there was a higher concentration of unregistered and active Unnaturals here than anywhere else in the country. And yet, despite the danger, she’d left her sidearm at home and decided to walk three miles from the nightclub in the dead of night. If she could only make it home and trigger the floodlights…_

_The chase comes to an end on a deserted footpath, painfully close to her house. She’s grabbed roughly from behind, tumbling to the asphalt with a cry. She’s rolled onto her back, pinned in place by a knee on her chest. Its breathing is heavy and filled with hunger, inhuman growls rumbling from deep within its chest._

_Red eyes and a gaping fang-filled mouth fill her vision for a few seconds. Then, what could be a grin tugged at its lips and it raised an arm. With a flash of its claws and a second of searing pain, the creature slashes her throat and the young woman knows no more._


	2. Chapter One

A godawful racket wakes Mike Channell with a start that alerts him to the fact that he’s face-down on the floor just inside the front door, fully clothed.

Pulling himself to his feet, he comes to the conclusion he must’ve overindulged at the pub and is now suffering the mother of all hangovers. Every fibre of his being, from his hair follicles to his toenails, aches as though he’s run twenty marathons. His stomach is churning with the ferocity of a typhoon at sea, and his mouth and throat feel sticky.

He wonders if he should call in sick, hoping that any shenanigans last night hadn’t been witnessed and plastered all over social media. Somehow he doesn’t think resembling a freshly exhumed corpse would bring in floods of viewers.

Finding his mobile out of battery, it takes him almost a minute to realise he also has a landline. He grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, groaning. What’s wrong with him? He’s never suffered this badly, nor felt quite this sluggish post-bender. It’s as though he was dropped into a pool of treacle in his sleep and is now fighting his way to the edge.

Reaching for the phone, he realises it’s already ringing.

“Are you coming in today?” Andy isn’t angry, but he does nothing to disguise his agitation.

“Eh?” Mike’s voice is a croak at best, which would probably do his ‘I can’t come in, I’m dying’ plea a favour at least. He glances at the clock to see that he should’ve been at work over three hours ago.

“Are you coming to the studio today, or do we need to substitute you?”

Mike tries to think in the vain hope he’ll stumble upon a memory. At the very least he wants to know if he’ll be jibed about knowing his limits. It’s proving difficult. A thick fog clouds his brain, interfering with his basic functions and obscuring all recollection of anything past sundown. It’s almost as if someone has taken a rubber to his memory and erased several hours, leaving nothing but a shadow and some rubber shavings.

“I think I’m gonna have to stay home today mate,” he says eventually, thankful that he at least sounds unwell.

There’s a sigh from the other end but it isn’t a frustrated one. “No worries,” Andy replies, “see you when you’re feeling better.”

Replacing the handset onto the cradle and ignoring the ‘6 missed calls’ message, Mike decides his best course of action is a shower. He feels gross, inside and out. He peels off the layers of clothing, casting each garment to the floor on his way to the bathroom. It’s not until he reaches out to turn on the shower and sees that his hands are red that he actually stops to take stock of himself in the bathroom mirror.

Every inch of him that wasn’t covered with clothing is covered in blood. It’s congealed in his hair, dried under his nails; when he pulls off his socks there’s even a shadow of it between his toes. Swaying on his feet for a couple of seconds, Mike pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, desperately fighting the malaise engulfing him. This cannot be real; this must just be a terrible nightmare. Any second now, he’ll wake up in bed and loudly proclaim ‘well thank god _that_ was just a dream!’

When he opens his eyes nothing has changed. His churning stomach drops as he determines that he is unharmed.

“What, the _fuck_ , is this?” Mike takes a shuddering breath, tiptoeing out of the door to inspect the trail of clothing he’s deposited throughout the flat. They are all saturated in claret, the boxers he’s still wearing included, and he’s about to rip them off in horror when there’s a hammering at the front door.

**BANG BANG BANG**.

Mike almost slips on his bloody t-shirt. Answering the door in his undercrackers wasn’t ideal at the best of times, let alone looking like he’d strolled off the set of a slasher movie. Worse still, there’s blood smeared throughout the flat, most of it concentrated to the spot where he’d woken up. There, the blood is still wet, shining in the daylight.

_What the hell happened here?_

**BANG BANG BANG.**

Heart leaping into his mouth, Mike remains rooted to the spot. He glances wildly around, looking for a dead body or something, anything to explain this situation. Instead he notes his laptop on the floor by the sofa, still on and plugged in. The video he’d been editing is half-finished, as is the plate of now stone-cold food abandoned on the sofa. Empty plastic containers are dirty by the sink, waiting to be washed up for recycling. Even the television is still on, displaying Netflix’s page of suggestions based on the film he’d been watching.

“We know you’re in there,” calls a gruff voice through the front door, “and we know what’s happened. Open the door now otherwise we’ll gain entry by force.”

Oh God, the police. There’s absolutely no way he could possibly talk his way out of this, unless the police officers turn out to be his friends and this is all just an elaborate prank. Accepting his fate, Mike gingerly treads around the tacky edges of the blood pool and unlatches the front door.

It’s immediately obvious that it’s not the police.  The man stood before him wears the dark grey jumpsuit of a senior Enforcer. His cap covers thick brown hair and although he too sports a beard, Mike knows this isn’t Andy in costume (although he can still hope, right?)

“Let us in,” the Enforcer says coldly.

Mike realises there are three of them: the senior, a junior in royal blue, and the Chief in white and navy. They are staring at him with hostility he can tell, even with their eyes hidden behind wraparound mirrored goggles – specially engineered to counteract any Unnaturals using hypnosis or vision-aided possessions, if Mike’s remembering the ‘beware the Unnaturals’ booklet correctly.

“Come in,” he mutters as he stands aside. He notes the lack of blood outside and frowns. Surely he must’ve left a massive trail?

The junior Enforcer, a woman, answers his unasked question. “A cleanup crew has already sanitised the area, and will do here also.” She gestures around the flat. Seeing Mike still stood with the door open, she adds: “Not _now_ , of course.”

Her tone suggests a degree of finality and Mike swallows uncomfortably, closing the door slowly. None of the Enforcers take their hidden gaze from him as he manoeuvres awkwardly past them and into the living room.

“Shower and change into clean clothes.” It’s not a suggestion.

Fleeing to the bathroom, Mike decides against locking the door. He doesn’t know much about the Enforcers but he does know it’s likely unwise to give them any more reasons to be suspicious of him. Turning on the spray, he strips off his boxers and holds them at arm’s length between finger and thumb. What should he do with them, with all of his clothes? If he didn’t have a living room full of hostile law enforcement he’d bundle them all into a bag and burn them. Hell, he’d torch the whole damn flat.

“Never,” he says to himself after considering this possibility for a few moments. For one, it would probably set the entire building ablaze and, whilst he had a neighbour or two he’d be quite happy to see perish in a fire, it wouldn’t do to put any more blood on his hands, however figuratively.

Standing under the spray, Mike stares at the red pooling at his feet. By now his brain had come to life sufficiently to determine he’d done something serious. Each possible explanation was more absurd than the last. Did he hit someone on the road and try to help them? He’d never drive drunk, so no. Did he get into a barroom brawl? Definitely not, he’d be the first to hide under a table if one erupted. Was he…abducted by aliens?

This thought makes him chuckle and he presses his palms against the tiles as the water cascades over the back of his head, slowly cleansing the blood from his hair.

It takes a while, maybe twice as long as he’d usually take and twice the amount of product, but eventually his body is free of blood in any form and he towels off, sweeping his discarded boxers to the side with a shiver. Wiping condensation from the mirror he notices a few minor abrasions previously hidden by the blood. Three scratch marks down his cheek – unmistakeably fingernails – and a bruise developing beneath his left eye were the most telling signs he’d been involved in something.

Brushing his teeth yields bloody toothpaste, but he wrestles all thoughts of what it could be to the back of his mind as he gargles, ignoring what’s on the floss – maybe he’s just got really badly bleeding gums? It dawns on him however, that maybe the heaviness in his stomach isn’t just too much booze and a dodgy kebab.

Nausea grips him for a few seconds and he leans over the toilet but nothing comes. It feels as though his body is fighting a battle to digest…whatever it is in his stomach. He decides he’d rather not think about it anymore.

Throwing on fresh clothes, Mike forgets to comb his hair but remembers to apply deodorant and put on socks. He can hear the Enforcers talking amongst themselves in hushed voices.

_OK,_ he thinks to himself as he laces his trainers, _this is probably just some awful misunderstanding, or maybe it really is some astronomical practical joke. Everything’s going to be fine._

Mike isn’t reassured by his own reasoning, partly because he knows the Enforcers don’t just come out for regular assaults, however brutal. With a pounding heart, he takes a few steadying breaths before re-joining the Enforcers in his living room.

“Put him in the car.” The Chief speaks for the first time, his voice quiet and husky. He’s shorter than Mike and slightly built. His footsteps are delicate as he saunters to the sofa, picks up the remote to switch off the television and close the laptop’s lid. Despite being unimposing physically, Mike can sense this is not a man to cross lest he fancy saying goodbye to half his teeth. He watches warily as the Chief crosses the room to open the front door.

“Coast clear,” the Chief says quietly, beckoning behind him, “but be quick.”

Taking Mike by the elbows, the two Enforcers march him out of the building to a sleek black SUV with heavily tinted windows. A now-commonplace vehicle on the streets of the city, he can remember when they first started cropping up and the disquiet that spread at their presence. Now nobody cared, but for a long time people were fearful of abduction.

Mike supposes their fears weren’t unfounded.

Barely any light permeates the tints so Mike finds himself in near-darkness as he’s crammed into the middle seat (without a seatbelt, typical). The two Enforcers flank him, sat rigidly and still gripping his elbows. The Chief climbs into the passenger seat and the car pulls away from the kerb.

After what seems like several days, but must only have been a few minutes, the Chief turns to face the captive in the back seat. “You know who we are, I trust.”

Mike initially nods, but realises he may not be visible. “You’re a Chief Enforcer, right?”

“For this unit, yes,” the Chief responds. “My name is Simmons. To your right is Officer Grey and to your left is Officer Green.” He falls silent again, but remains facing the back.

Squirming under his gaze, Mike’s not sure what to do. Should he say hello it’s nice to meet them? Introduce himself? Comment about the traffic?

“We know who you are,” Green states. “We also know what you are.” His emphasis of the word ‘what’ is disquieting.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

Grey chuckles mirthlessly. “Correct.”

They drive on in silence. Mike has a thousand questions but bites his tongue. Nobody knows where the Enforcers have their HQ; he supposes he’d always thought they shared premises with the regular Met. Simmons had mentioned he headed their ‘unit’. Did this mean Enforcers had a patch, like regular police officers? Did they have a network of stations where they sit with their feet up on their desks, slurping tea, waiting for a call out?

Mike amuses himself with the image of Simmons leaping from an office chair as an alarm blares and descending a fireman’s pole, diving into the SUV as it screeches out of the garage. Perhaps not.

As the journey drags on and conversation is non-existent, Mike has nothing to focus on but the aches in his muscles and the upset of his stomach. His head is now troubling him more than earlier, where it was nothing but a manageably dull throb. He’s definitely had more painful headaches, but this one seems worse somehow, as though someone is slowly pushing a blade up through his brainstem into his skull.

Eventually the car descends a slope. The window tints make it impossible to see out but the reverberation of the engine noise suggests they are now underground, driving through a narrow tunnel. Mike has no idea how long they have been driving – there’s no clock visible in the car, and he never put on his watch – but he doesn’t think they’ve driven far out of the city, if they’ve left London at all.

He’s pulled out of the left side when they finally park. They’re in an underground car park, almost every single one of the twenty-odd bays filled with the same nondescript black SUVs. A barrier blocks the tunnel they have just emerged from, making Mike feel more trapped than ever as he’s pushed towards a lift in the corner.

Simmons swipes a card through a reader on the wall and the doors slide open, revealing a small and cramped lift carriage. They pile in, joined by the junior who’d been behind the wheel. There’s another reader above the panel of buttons, none of which have visible numbers.

It’s not until now that Mike realises just how dire his situation is. Regardless of what he may or may not have done, absolutely nobody knows he’s here. He has no idea where _here_ is, beyond that it’s subterranean. He could literally die here and never be discovered, destined to remain a grainy photo on a missing poster for the rest of eternity.

The doors open to a corridor, lit with fluorescent strip lights. Numbered doors, arranged in pairs, line the white and clinical walls. Mike is frogmarched across the squeaky linoleum to the doors numbered 'nine', where he is lightly shoved inside.

“Sit, and wait,” Grey demands, slamming the door behind her as she leaves.

Left alone, Mike looks around what is unmistakeably an interrogation room. The walls are panelled with RPG BAD tiles, a large two-way mirror dominates the short wall adjacent to the door and a plain table with four chairs sits centre. Doing as he’s told, Mike pulls out a chair from the table and lowers himself into it.

Last night seems a world away from where he’s sat now. Finding himself without groceries and the motivation to buy more at the time, he’d ordered a takeaway, cracked a beer and kicked back on the sofa, streaming a few of his favourite films on Netflix as he worked. Now he’s sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair at a table in a freezing interrogation room in some kind of underground base.

Mike racks his brains for all information he can recall about the Enforcers and their operations. He knows about the laws surrounding Unnaturals. He knows the Enforcers are more or less a division of the police, put in place to deal with the Unnaturals following those laws. He knows they’re as formidable to regular folk as they are to the Unnatural. Beyond that information and the guidelines for after-dark excursions there is nothing, disregarding the titbits learned by word of mouth – the purpose of the goggles is one such factoid.

Shivering, Mike pulls up the zip of his hoody and sits on his hands to keep his fingers warm. He supposes there must be Unnaturals who require a low ambient temperature though he hopes someone will turn up the thermostat before he develops frostbite.

The door opens. It’s Simmons, holding a manila folder under his arm and a plastic cup of water in his hand. He sets both down onto the table before closing the door again, taking the seat opposite Mike.

“So,” he says, lacing his fingers together and leaning his forearms against the table’s edge. He’s removed his goggles and Mike can see his eyes are grey and unreadable.

“So…what’s happening? Why am I here?” Mike keeps his face neutral, but hears a note of defiance in his voice and curses inwardly.

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, Simmons looks pointedly at the folder. “For the guided tour of the facility, obviously.”

Mike is conflicted. Under normal circumstances a sarcastic quip like that would draw a chuckle from him and he wants to respond in kind. He’s never been arrested for anything, but he’s pretty sure that lippy backtalk probably isn’t the way to go in an interview. However, Simmons is somewhat of a calming influence, sucking the oppressiveness out of the room.

“This tour particularly long? And does the gift shop sell fridge magnets?” Mike chances the joke, and to his relief Simmons cracks a small smile.

“No, but I’m sure we can get you a pen,” he says.

“Very generous of you, ta.”

Simmons regards Mike for a minute or so. “What do you know about us, and the Unnaturals we police?”

Mike shakes his head. “Only what I’ve read, or heard rumoured.”

Settling back in his seat and resting his still-laced fingers on his stomach, Simmons cocks his head slightly to one side. “So, as much as the layperson, okay.” He nudges the cup of water towards Mike. “Refreshments are complimentary,” he adds.

Taking a cautionary sip from the cup, Mike realises how thirsty he is, draining the water in a couple of large gulps.

Simmons chuckles, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “You can have some more in a while. It’s not good to overload your system so soon after.”

“Soon after _what_?”

Simmons doesn’t elaborate. Instead he opens the folder and starts to rifle through the sheaf of papers inside. “For almost as long as humans have existed on this planet there have always been those with…additional abilities should we say. Some have entire legends based around them, others are lesser known, but all live among us in some form or another. These are what have been termed as ‘Unnaturals’. We, the Enforcers, were established as a means to provide an extra level of security for humans afraid of the more dangerous ones.” He takes a couple of photographs from the folder and slides one across the table. “Look carefully.”

Leaning forward, Mike does so. He’s not sure what he’s seeing at first, until he spots what is unmistakably his jacket. He looks up at Simmons for some kind of explanation, but only gets a gesture that indicates he should scrutinise the image some more.

It’s grainy, clearly taken from a CCTV camera. There are two subjects mid-run, although one is halfway out of the frame. The second, the one wearing his jacket, is without a shadow of a doubt an Unnatural. A mouthful of pointed teeth, bared in an open-mouthed growl. Long claws instead of fingernails. Despite the picture being black-and-white, Mike can also tell the creature’s skin is tough, almost leathery, and an unnatural hue. He’s about to ask what he’s looking at, and then it dawns on him, however much he doesn’t want to believe it.

“This…this isn’t _me_?”

There’s no answer from Simmons. Instead, he places the other photo in front of Mike, beside the first. “Recognise her?”

It’s a young woman stood alone at a pedestrian crossing, maybe in her mid-twenties. Petite, brunette, wearing a long-sleeved minidress and trainers. In her right hand she’s carrying a clutch bag, in the other a pair of heels. This woman was clearly on her way home from a night out, but what did that have to do with him? Was this the other person in the first picture?

“No,” Mike says with a shake of his head. “Should I recognise her?”

Simmons takes a long breath in through his nose. “You should, yes,” he replies carefully, “although I wouldn’t expect you to for a while. First transformations do tend to scramble the brain and cloud the memory.”

“First transformation,” Mike repeats, glancing back at the… _thing_ in the first photo. “Who is she?”

Simmons leans forward until he’s almost nose-to-nose with Mike, who shuffles back in his chair. “That is Elizabeth Wilson, known to her friends as Liza, and she’s the woman you murdered.”


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't make it to the 50k NaNo goal, but I did make it to about 13k which is about 3k more than 2016. Progress! Since I really did enjoy writing the 13k words I did write, I am going to continue to update as regularly as I can and hopefully, one day, it'll be finished! I am also aware than this has been flagged up to the protagonist himself via somebody on Twitter, so hi there Mike *waves* and yes, for the record you ARE badass (but not a vicious murdering half-demon, I presume...?) 
> 
> Many thanks to those of you who've left kudos, it means a lot! I hope y'all continue to enjoy this product of my crazy brain.

Many years from now Mike looks back on this moment and considers, perhaps, that in the face of being told he was a murderer to burst out laughing probably wasn’t the best course of action.

To his credit Simmons doesn’t get angry, nor does he scream for backup, pin Mike to the table or throw him against the walls and cuff him like they do in all those police procedurals when dealing with an unruly suspect. Instead he simply raises his eyebrows and adopts a faintly amused expression. 

Mike’s laughter develops into hysterical giggles. He clutches his stomach, half-worried he’ll piss himself and half-worried he’ll puke. He’s now convinced this is an elaborate joke. Somewhere there’s a person behind the scenes recording this for some candid camera show, carefully earmarking the best reactions for the final edit to induce maximum humiliation. He waits for what he believes to be the inevitable reveal: the door bursting open, a camera crew piling in and for some unseen host, Simmons himself maybe, to take him through the whole thing blow-by-blow.

A few minutes pass. Simmons gives an air of patience, as though this is the latest of many such episodes he’s witnessed and he’s simply waiting for it to end so he can continue.

Every time Mike’s laughter dies down he catches sight of the photo of ‘him’ and it bubbles back up again. Tears stream down his face and his abs scream. He’s gasping for air. He’s doesn’t think he’s laughed this hard in his life.

“I just… I _can’t_ … What…?”

Simmons chuckles. “This reaction is quite normal for most,” he explains, gesturing across the table. “Not so much for your kind though.Those that we've had in here have all showed…other emotions. Excitement mostly.”

“My – kind - ?” Mike gasps between giggles.

“Yes. I say ‘kind’ rather than 'species' because you’re an interesting one. Combination of two genetically incompatible species actaully.” Simmons says this very matter-of-factly, as though describing the differences between breeds of dog, and only serves to feed Mike’s dying laughter.

“If you’d like a little more proof, then here’s an article from the Metro this morning.” Simmons takes a cutting from the folder and hands it to Mike. Sure enough it’s clipped from the paper, short but to the point: ‘brutal murder, police appeal for eyewitnesses’.

It slowly dawns on him that perhaps this isn’t a joke. So far nobody else has entered the room, even though he knows there are pairs of eyes watching him through the two-way mirror. Simmons is pleasantly calm, no trace of mirth hidden behind his mask of indifference. He doesn’t come across as a man about to reveal he was hired to execute the practical joke of the century.

“It’ll start sinking in soon,” Simmons says as he watches Mike carefully, “but do your best not to panic. It can trigger a transformation and we don’t want to have to sedate you.”

Mike doesn’t mind being the butt of the occasional joke but as his rational mind returns he does have to admit he can’t think of anything he’s done that would warrant such extreme revenge. Pranks are common amongst the OX crew but they’re never anything worse than Whoopie Cushions hidden in the sofa, or the time Jane duct-taped an air horn underneath Andy’s office chair (and subsequently gave the entire borough a cardiac). To get him drunk, splash some fake blood around and then knock at the door dressed as an Enforcer is one thing. But going as far as to somehow link him to the murder of a real person. and then get him drunk and plaster him and his flat in stage blood, and _then_ call the real Enforcers to arrest him and bring him in for questioning? Nobody he knows could be that cruel.

In the absence of someone bursting in and yelling ‘PSYCHE’ Mike settles on the conclusion that this is completely, one hundred percent, real.

Now he vomits, although he keeps his eyes squeezed shut so he doesn’t have to look at what he suspects was in his stomach, and he doesn’t open them until the smell of bleach confirms the janitorial worker has cleaned the floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, warily eyeing the bucket left beside his chair.

Spreading his hands is if to say ‘don’t worry about it’, Simmons shakes his head. “It's common in hybrids. Often, the physiology of both forms is so different that even consuming water can be dangerous. Fortunately that'll pass. Until then you’ll find that your…alternative diet is somewhat incompatible with your human digestive system to begin with. I suggest light and bland meals for the next few days.”

Mike isn’t sure he wants confirmation of what that ‘alternative diet’ consists of.

“You’re an interesting one though,” Simmons repeats, scanning some documents in the folder. His brow is now lightly furrowed. “Medically speaking it’s a wondera crossbreed such as yourself survived one decade, let alone three.”

“Crossbreed,” Mike echoes.

“Mm.” Simmons looks at him curiously. “Half demon, half shapeshifter. As I said, genetically incompatible. You're definitely a rarity. Your blood in particular is incredibly valuable. I can think of half a dozen people off the top of my head who would gladly slaughter you for it. Don’t worry,” he adds at Mike’s alarm, “all are incarcerated awaiting execution, if not already dead.”

Head spinning, Mike looks at his hands, turning them over and spreading his fingers. They look like his hands have always looked, which is to say very human indeed. Now he’s expected to believe that if you scratched the surface he’d be exposed as some hideous beast?

“Supernatural beings have always existed amongst humans. Historically, we all lived side-by-side, harmoniously for the most part. To this day the vast majority live in human form.” Simmons folds his arms and leans forward. “Others either have no ability to transform or simply don’t care to. Some are benign, others are not. The dangerous ones, those who prey on humans for their blood or bones, consider human beings to be at the bottom of the food chain, the lowest rung of the ladder. They’re the kind who would murder indiscriminately, without care of consequence.

"The Enforcement Division was set up to try to contain dangrous Unnaturals but there was only so much we could do. We introduced mandatory registration of all known Unnaturals. We established curfews in an attempt to keep nocturnal predators from reaching a food source. Both were minimally effective. The vast majority willingly registered but the ones we really needed to keep tabs on refused, making it easier to slip under the radar. As for the curfew… That was the year there was a spike in daytime murders, mostly young victims, school trips and such, you remember? No matter what we tried, we couldn’t prevent at least a few deaths a night. We didn’t have the manpower to have visible patrols everywhere we thought an attack would likely occur. Not that visibility necessarily made a difference.”

A lot of this Mike knows. The news used to do a report on the nationwide death toll at the hands of the Unnaturals once a month. Anything under four figures was considered a good month. He remembers the boards at every school he’d been to, with the ever-growing number of pictures of pupils whose lives were cut short by some monstrosity.

“Eventually the government figured enough was enough,” Simmons goes on, “and decided that every single citizen would be subjected to genetic testing: you might recall you gave a blood sample in your early teens. This included newborns. The idea was to catch the dangerous ones early so they could be…cleansed. Of course, the idea of culling infants wasn’t exactly popular, even if those infants could turn out to be a dangerous species. Thus, the testing was outsourced to us – specifically this unit - that way the government could avoid feeling responsible for needless deaths.”

The penny drops. “You falsify the results,” Mike says. “So, you’ve known about me most of my life?”

A slow, sly smile stretches across Simmons’ face and he nods. “Let’s put it like this: the government is under the impression that there are far fewer Unnaturals than in reality, and far fewer dangerous ones. They decreed that every Unnatural, regardless of race be put to death. We do honour that law when necessary, but there’s no point in flagging up those who would never pose a threat. Even so, thousands of innocent Unnaturals are still executed every year.”

“You disagree with the law?” Mike asks.

Simmons looks vaguely surprised at the question and takes a while to answer. “When that law was passed I stopped being a law enforcer, and became an exterminator,” he says finally. “I agree that certain individuals must be stopped at any cost, and if that’s death then so be it. But I do not agree that the crimes of the few should condemn the many, and I do not agree with the change in my duty as an Enforcer.”  

Mike shifts in his chair uncomfortably. "Don't suppose I need to guess what kind of individual I classify as?”

Making a noise that could have been regretful, Simmons shakes his head slightly. “No, you don't. The government failed to differentiate between species, but also they failed to differentiate between the Unnatural and the human, and that the human may be blissfully ignorant of what the other part of them is doing.” He sighs heavily. “The most we can do for many we arrest is to imprison them and, if we have the upper hand, keep their execution at bay for as long as possible.” He knits his fingers together. "Mike Channell may be a law abiding citizen but because you're an Unnatural that just doesn't matter." 

Silence descends between the two men for a while. Simmons seems to be lost in thought, as though he’s never truly considered his stance on this entire matter until now.

“I thought demons possessed a host?” Mike asks eventually.

This question brings Simmons back to the room with a deep inhale through his nose. “Yes and no. Some demons are non-corporeal, like a spirit, and therefore must use a vessel in order to interact physically with the world or other individuals. Most are physical beings who take human form, in the same manner as a werewolf for example. You get that from your mother's side. The other half of your lineage, from your father, would have contributed to your ability to more easily keep your appearance, but also to the way you transform. It’ll be this part of you that’ll have displayed subtle indications over the years.”

Mike thinks about the little things he’s noticed throughout his life, such as the rate at which his hair grows. It confuses even the barber, who often jokes he must not be human. Once, he swore blind Mike’s hair had grown a noticeable amount in the time it had taken him to get out of the chair and pay, and Mike himself had to admit that within three days it looked like he’d never been.

“I’ll be honest,” Simmons says somewhat grimly, “if it hadn’t been for you being half-shapeshifter, then you wouldn’t be sat here opposite me now.” He presses his lips together, as though debating whether or not to elaborate. “You’d be in our morgue,” he adds eventually.

A word leaps into Mike’s mind: Reaper. The elite squad sent to deal with the worst of the worst out in the field, the truly abhorrent monsters. Rumours about the group and its members were rife but nobody knew much about them, beyond their contact information.

“You’re not in a good position right now.” Simmons is stating the obvious. “You’re implicated in the most serious crime an Unnatural could commit. You murdered a human, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her; you literally tore her to shreds. It’s likely you would’ve been shot on sight; you were tracked by one of the less lenient Enforcement squads who flagged you up to the Reapers. Fortunately, _this_ squad got there first.”

Thinking back to Simmons’ words on the drive here, Mike realises he’d forgotten to be more curious about just what ‘this unit’ meant. He now knows the team presumably falsely labelled him as human to protect him; and presumably many others. Does this mean they also watch his back, to rescue him from serious punishment if a serious incident should occur?

Simmons collects everything and stuffs it all back into the folder. “The situation is as follows. You, on your first transformation, killed a human. This is usually a crime punishable by death without trial. Normally in a murder this violent there is no stay of execution, although it can be open to an Enforcer’s discretion, especially for offenses committed during a first transformation. At best you face a life in prison having to continuously appeal the decision to behead you. The more likely outcome would be your execution, which would likely have already been carried out if it had been any other team. However, as I said, the right lot got to you first.” He fixes Mike with a gaze, a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

Mike feels strange then. It’s as if all his problems have been lifted from his shoulders. The man before him has unburdened him of everything, leaving him completely unrestricted. He feels vulnerable but liberated, unable to look away from Simmons’ eyes which are drawing him in like magnets. The chair beneath him vanishes as the Enforcer’s pupils seem to swallow the room and replace it with a void of delicious nothingness. Freedom beckons, sucking him down, down, down…

There’s a knock at the door, which breaks the spell. Simmons stands, picking up the folder and striding across the room, leaving Mike blinking in confusion. He’s back to feeling heavy and encumbered. Perhaps that was just a side effect of having consumed human flesh, he thinks with a shiver. Or something in the water?

Simmons opens the door and stands aside to let someone pass. “There are people who can put your talents to use. Consider the offer you’re about to be made,” he says seriously, before walking out and closing the door behind him.

The newcomer makes their way to the seat vacated by the Chief. They walk slowly, gingerly, and lower themselves into the chair as though in great pain. They wear a long black trench coat and a wide-brimmed Trilby, keeping their head down so Mike cannot tell who – or maybe, considering where he’s sat, _what_ – is beneath it.

“Good afternoon,” the newcomer says; they appear to be male, the voice so raspy it’s as though he’s speaking through a throat full of nails. He remains seated in his hat and coat, face tilted down, but doesn’t say anything more.

“Um, good afternoon?” Mike rubs his palms against his thighs nervously. “So…are you with the Enforcers?” He feels like this is a stupid question as he can’t see the uniform jumpsuit beneath the coat, but can’t think of anything else to say to fill the now-growing silence.

The man chuckles. “In a manner of speakin’, yes I am I suppose.” He reaches up with a hand clad in a leather glove and finally removes his hat.

Mike was expecting some fantastic beast, perhaps wild fur and razor-sharp fangs. What he comes face-to-face with instead is an elderly man, albeit one who appears to have been dunked in something corrosive. The dark, wrinkled skin on his face looks like it’s in the process of dissolving away from his skull, similar in appearance to an Alka-Seltzer fizzing in a glass of water. His pupils are black snake-like slits amid deep red and when he smiles, warmly, he reveals sharp, pointed teeth.

“You’re a demon,” Mike concludes.

The demon chuckles again. “I am; the body’s not. This,” he gestures to himself, “is just a meat-suit, a vessel. Been in here a long time though, since he was a young ‘un. You can probably see he’s a little, uh, worse for wear should we say.” His voice may be raspy but it’s mild, almost soothing, with a New Orleans accent and a note of amusement always lingering behind his words.

“Possession takes its toll on the host,” Mike deduces, receiving a nod in return. He feels glad he’s not a meat-suit. He might not consider himself an oil painting worthy of display in the Louvre but at least he doesn’t look like _that_.

These thoughts must have displayed on his face because the demon laughs. “I know I’m an ugly old man,” he chortles, light-hearted. “It’s fine for you to agree.” He reaches a hand across the table. “The name’s Porter.”

Mike shakes hands. Porter’s grip is firm and confident. “That wasn’t what I expected a demon’s name to be, I have to be honest.”

Porter waves a hand. “Comin’ from a demon called _Michael_?” He laughs. “I get that a lot, don’t worry. It’s a downside to us bein’ such a popular subject for human fiction. Means people always think your name is Pazuzu or somethin’.” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember my own name, been too long. Porter’s the last name of one of my earliest vessels, the earliest I can remember anyway.”

Resisting the urge to ask just how many vessels Porter must’ve had in order to not remember the first few, Mike instead chooses to remain silent. His now-empty stomach is sore and so is his head, and he decides that thinking of suitable questions needs to wait a while.

“Feelin’ rough?” Porter sighs sympathetically. “First full transformation is always the worst no matter what you are. You’ll get used to it after a few more times.”

This confuses Mike. “A few more times?” he repeats. “I thought that dangerous Unnaturals were imprisoned and executed to protect the public?”

“You don’t remember what the Chief said? ‘Consider the offer about to be made’.” Porter gives Mike a sly look. “What do you think I’m here for? I’m here to make you that offer. You don’t have to take it, but I will say that I did when I was in your shoes, and I never regretted it.”

Mike frowns. “What’s the deal?”

Reaching into his inside pocket, Porter removes a tri-fold piece of paper and places it on the table. A pen follows. “You’re facin’ execution, you’re not wrong there. The Chief probably already told you that you wouldn’t get a trial and only get granted a stay if you’re lucky. Now, you might be that lucky but you’d still spent your life in a tiny cell for twenty-four hours a day. Your friends and family can’t visit, or even know where you are. You can’t associate with anyone but the guard who brings you your tiny meals. Doesn’t sound appealin’ does it?”, 

This requires no contemplation on Mike's part. “What’s the alternative?”

“You mean apart from the guillotine?” Porter taps the still-folded piece of paper. “This. It’s a contract for you to consider and sign, or not if you so choose. To put it simply, if you sign it you agree to join us.”

It takes Mike longer than he would’ve liked to come to the realisation of what this is contract for. “You’re a Reaper,” he says finally, slowly.

Porter holds up his hands. “I’m _the_ Reaper, technically. Unfortunately this old fella isn’t up to the job anymore, so I’ve had to take on a less active role, but I was the first to take that title and still act as this particular team’s leader.” Seeing Mike’s raised eyebrows he chuckles. “Like I said kid, I’ve been around a long time. Bounty hunters aren't a new concept, especially when Unnaturals are concerned.”

“How many of you are there?”

“In this team? With you in our ranks we’d be at seven,” Porter responds. "Worldwide? I can't tell you a number, there are too many. 'Specially those workin' off the record."

Surprised, Mike says, “There are only six of you? I thought there would be more. I mean, I guess I've always thought you guys were a huge unstoppable army or something.”

Porter chuckles, although this time the mirth is minimal. “You don’t have to be large in numbers to be an unstoppable army. We’re good at what we do and we’re picky with who we choose to join us. You think it’s an accident that I’m sittin’ here now after what we watched you do last night?"

A shiver runs down Mike’s spine. It’s not really occurred to him that perhaps there could’ve been a Reaper actually on his tail. Really, he’s lucky to be alive.

“You are,” Porter says, reading Mike’s mind. “Any other circumstance and we’d have taken you down. However, your heritage makes you useful to us. Given the chance to develop your abilities you could be an incredible asset to our team.” He unfolds the contract and slides it across the table. “A warnin' thogh: you do have to fully understand what your responsibility is as a Reaper, and it’s not pretty.”

Mike swallows hard. “Yeah, the equivalent to hardcore pest control.”

His face falling, Porter’s gaze shifts to the table where he stares into space. “We hunt down the most dangerous as we're supposed to, but we also do a lot of the Enforcers’ dirty work, kill for the squads that are the government’s lapdogs. Cullin’ the innocent. It’s not fun, killin’ our own people,” he says glumly sfter a few seconds pause. “Especially when we have to get rid of folks who’ve done absolutely nothin’. But, we do it because it’s better to be useful and continue existin’ than be deemed too dangerous to live, even if you’re not that dangerous at all.”

Mike stares at the contract in front of him. This is it? This is the deal? Execute or be executed? Truth be told he finds the whole concept abhorrent. He doesn’t want to kill anyone, regardless of whether it’s a necessity or not. The knowledge that he already _has_ killed is enough to make him sick for eternity. He doesn’t fancy the alternatives though; beheading at worst, a lifetime in a prison cell at best with nobody knowing where he is.

“What’s it gonna be, kid?” Porter leans forward and stares at Mike intently. The slits of his pupils subtly adjust with each languid blink. Expectancy radiates from him in waves although his face remains blank.

Carefully reading the contract’s many clauses, Mike’s stomach flips. For a few seconds the surrealness of the situation blares at him. It’s like something from a fantasy novel: man finds out he’s secretly a bloodthirsty killing machine, man strikes deal with the devil, man become kickass bounty hunter. He has an uneasy feeling that this can only end with him and everyone he holds dear dead, but with a beheading looming over him what other choice does he have?

With a trembling hand, Mike picks up the pen and signs away his previous life.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies that this has taken so long to publish. It's actually been written for months but took me an age to get around to having it proofread for publication. Unfortunately adult life, like bills and work and stuff, takes priority, LAME! However, I do hope to get back into the flow of writing this. It's a lot of fun, both to write and to test my skills as a writer. Enjoy, and thanks to all for the kind comments and kudos, it genuinely means a lot.

“You made the right decision kid,” Porter insists for the billionth time, though he knows Mike remains unconvinced. 

They’re on the road again. Porter is behind the wheel of another black SUV: this one clearly isn’t of the Enforcer fleet. This time Mike rides in the front passenger seat and gets to ogle the multitude of technology plastered on every available surface around him. All required equipment to track dangerous Unnaturals he supposes. 

Simmons had re-entered the room almost the moment Mike had put pen to paper. He’d scanned the freshly-signed document whilst nodding to himself, shaken Porter’s hand and bundled the pair out the door, escorting them to the car park. 

“We look forward to working with you,” he had said to Mike as he’d pushed them through the lift doors. There was something ominous about those words; a hint of the reminder that if Mike put so much as a toe out of line his head would be on the chopping block. 

This drive seems significantly shorter than the previous one but, despite having a much better view through the windscreen than from the gloomy backseat, Mike still hasn’t got a clue where they are. He feels like he vaguely recognises the area but not enough to pinpoint even which side of the Thames they’re on, let alone a borough. Streetlights illuminate the empty pavements; night is still falling, the last semblances of autumnal sun disappearing from the horizon, but it must be after curfew. 

The curfew. Mike’s stomach rolls. Liza Wilson was out after curfew, on her own, on foot. She must have had a pass to be out after dark, but he doubts she was allowed to be out alone as a pedestrian. It’s something he’s done himself on numerous occasions. Both the Met and the Enforcers are supposed to keep a strict eye on the streets and punish curfew-breakers but they’ve been lax the past couple of years. Mike reckons they’ve stopped caring, taking an ‘on your own head be it’ attitude. 

“I’ll take you to HQ and let you meet the others before takin’ you home,” Porter says, breaching the silence. “You’re gonna need some trainin’ before we can have you out in the field, but we’ll get to that.” After a while he adds: “It gets easier, y’know.” 

“Hm?” 

Porter sighs pensively. “Comin’ to terms with bein’ a killer. The fact that you feel so bad about it is a good thing, believe me. I’ve met plenty who don’t give a shit. Just remember that we’re all in the same boat here, we’re all in this squad because we’ve killed humans.” 

Somehow this doesn’t quell the turmoil in Mike’s mind. He rubs his thumb along the edge of his seatbelt absent-mindedly, uncomfortably reconciling with the fact that it’s now his job to commit what amounts to genocide. At least his headache has subsided, although it’s been replaced with a strange sort of itch. A flash of panic grips him but Porter places a hand briefly on his shoulder by way of reassurance. 

“You won’t transform, not for another several days.”

“And then what?” 

Porter reaches for the dash and presses a small blue button. “You do have the power to control your abilities and transform at will. We have enough time to teach you how, don’t worry. Besides,” he says as the car comes to a halt, “we’ll have eyes on you for a while to, you know, keep you in check.” 

Translation: to ensure I don’t murder some other innocent person, Mike thinks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Unsurprisingly, Reaper HQ is also underground although instead of a lift, the double doors in the corner of the car park lead to a stairwell with a large ‘B’ painted on the wall. They descend four flights, passing a ‘-2’ as they walk through another set of double doors. 

“This is our base of operations for everythin’. Coordinatin’ the team, handin’ out assignments, trackin’ Unnaturals, socialisin’. You name it, it happens here. It’s sorta like a second home. Kinda cosy once you get used to it.” Porter leads Mike down a dimly lit corridor, similar to the one he was in earlier but decidedly tattier around the edges. The linoleum is peeling away from the walls, the paint is cracking and several of the strip lights have blown. To Mike’s amusement, somebody has decorated the walls with spray paint. Featuring most prominently is the word ‘REAPERZ’ in fluorescent pink along one wall, with a blood-red smiley face beside it. 

“That is paint, right?” Mike asks uneasily, images of The Chamber of Secrets and its sinister bloody messages daubed on the wall flashing into his mind. 

Porter chuckles. “Yes. You can thank the twins for that. The Enforcers don’t exactly spare any expense when it comes to decoratin’, so they took it upon themselves to get creative.”

They arrive at a door, all the way at the end of the long corridor. Peeling letters state that it’s the ‘Common Room’. Porter reaches for the knob and turns it, calling out: “Everyone, meet the new guy!” 

The common room is spacious, with a similar need for refurbishment as the corridor. Mismatched furniture is scattered around the room which is where its occupants are lounging, slouched on sofas, one is on a beanbag and one sits at a table, working on a tablet. They all look up as Porter enters the room but only a couple keep watching Mike as he awkwardly follows him, as though fresh meat for them is the least interesting thing that could happen today. 

Mike can see what Porter means when he says ‘cosy’. It reminds him a little of the common rooms at his university halls, or in Sixth Form. There’s a relatively modern kitchenette in one corner, a table-tennis table in another – Mike remembers the short victory they had had in Sixth Form where the headmaster had been persuaded to purchase a ping-pong table for the common room; it had been fantastic for all of a week until one particular lunchtime. A kid, angry at his friend for beating him, took the bat and whacked him in the face with it, breaking his nose. Unsurprisingly this caused the swift removal of the table. 

“Everyone, this is Mike. Mike, everyone.” Porter gestures around the room. Nobody speaks, although the young woman on the furthest sofa is glaring with undisguised hostility. Her eyes are yellow, cat-like, and a pair of black-tufted ears poke out of her long black hair. 

Not knowing really what to do, Mike decides to raise a hand in some semblance of a wave. “Uh, hello everyone.” 

Crickets. 

“Clearly everyone is absolutely thrilled to meet you,” Porter says, frowning at the group disapprovingly. “Don’t all get up at once,” he adds. 

“We don’t need another person.” The woman with the cat ears speaks maliciously. 

Porter gives her a look, as if to say ‘well tough shit, he’s here to stay’. 

“What is he?” This rather blunt question comes from the young man at the table. 

“Hybrid,” Porter replies, “demon, shapeshifter.” 

The young man gets to his feet and strides across the room. “Hybrid? Cool!” he says brightly. “Nice to meet you Mike! My name’s Red Neck.” 

Shaking Red Neck’s hand, Mike subtly tries to deduce what could be beneath his human exterior. He looks normal enough. He’s maybe in his early twenties with a mop of fluffy red hair and wire-framed glasses. His green eyes sparkle with mischief, as though he’s filled a friend’s shoes with custard and he’s waiting for them to be put on. The only indication that there’s something inhuman about him is the interface connection port implanted into the left side of his forehead. 

“Cybernetics,” Mike remarks, briefly gesturing at the port. 

Red Neck nods, apparently pleased. “I’m technically human,” he explains, “but even a team of supernatural bounty hunters needs a techie!” 

Porter claps the young man on the shoulder. “Red’s bein’ modest, he knows we’d fall apart without him! He maintains our tech equipment but he’s also our eyes and ears in the field. We have limited access to surveillance when we’re out there so it’s his job to provide tactical support.” He leans in to Red Neck and adds: “Go fetch him.”

There’s a tap on Mike’s shoulder and he turns to see the woman with the cat ears at his elbow. She’s still glaring at him but it’s with a certain resignation that she introduces herself. “Aaliyah,” she says shortly. Her handshake is brief and limp, and once she’s completed this formality she turns on her heel and stalks from the room. 

“Don’t mind her,” Porter says as Mike blinks. “She’s like that with everybody.”

Mike isn’t sure whether to be relived or not. “The ears… She’s a cat? Some kind of animal in human form?” 

Nodding, Porter looks wistfully after her. “Bobcat to be precise. Be careful you stay on her good side, kid. She’s not to be messed with. Her body count is the highest of any of us, which is an achievement considerin’ all the ones I’ve racked up in my time.” 

To hear Porter speak so openly about murder makes Mike uncomfortable. He knows last night’s actions are a skeleton he cannot keep hidden in the closet; it’s better to face it and come to terms with it sooner rather than later. But a murder is still a murder. He might love to slaughter his way through a level in a game – hey, it’s impossible to be noticed by guards if there are no guards left alive to notice you, right? – but to have innocent blood on his hands, to consider that one day he’ll be as blasé as Porter is being now, turns his stomach. 

“It takes time to square with what you are,” Porter says gently, sensing Mike’s discomfort. “Don’t expect to feel any kind of neutrality towards your crimes for a long time. But start by really concentratin’ on the fact that you weren’t in control of yourself, you never are in a first transformation.”

Mike is going to respond, to ask whether or not this could’ve been prevented, but he notices something out of the corner of his eye and it derails his train of thought.

The occupant of the beanbag has joined the person sat in the nearest sofa; they now peek over the back. Identical, androgynous and eerily pale, their icy blue eyes bore into Mike unblinkingly, leaving him disconcerted. 

“Oh. Meet the twins,” Porter says, gesturing grandly in their direction. “Jed and Jem.”

“Um, hello.” Mike gives an awkward wave, feeling more and more unnerved by the second. “They’re a tad creepy I have to say, so if they could stop staring at me like that, that would be great.” 

Porter chuckles. “You think they’re creepy now, wait until you see their true forms.” He quickly holds up a hand, probably to prevent a transformation. “Ghouls are weird like that,” he continues with a frown. “Even in full human form they’re still eerie-lookin’. Apart from people like me, demons possessin’ a host for just a few too many years, there aren’t that many species that are obviously somethin’ other than human. Except those Unnaturals that don’t have a human form, obviously,” he adds. 

Ghouls. The first supernatural being Mike ever personally encountered. He was only a kid at the time, not yet eight, and he’d been to a friend’s house after school. This was long before any imposed curfews and his own home was maybe five minutes’ walk away, so Mike walked home alone well after sundown, the darkness peppered with the orange glow of the streetlamps. Despite the short length of his journey, he would usually take a shortcut, ducking down a narrow alley between back garden fences. 

Unlit and deserted except from the occasional neighbourhood cat, on this night Mike had stumbled across a dead body, throat and chest ripped open. The figure bent over it looked up from its feast as he approached, snarling at the disturbance. Mike remembers only blood-reddened teeth in a gaping mouth before he turned and fled. 

The following day he learned the victim had been the older brother of a classmate. He’d been playing football with some friends and had declined the offer of a lift back to his house. Nobody believed he might not make it home. 

The memory still makes Mike’s stomach churn. He glances at the twins. Their gaze is still fixed on him, though it’s neither inquisitive nor hostile. He stares them down, blue meeting brown, until eventually they seem to lose interest and return to their previous activities. 

“Be warned, they’re quiet. They rarely speak, rarely make a noise when they move. Makes them excellent in the field but experts at unintentional jumpscares,” Porter mutters. 

“I’m kind of immune to jumpscares to be honest,” Mike replies, although he doesn’t know if that extends to flesh-eating supernatural creatures. He quickly decides it does; how different is a CGI monster to a real one anyway? If he can handle it all in a game with a level of stoicism that is often remarked to be robotic, surely he can handle the real articles. 

Porter chuckles as though considering his attitude incredibly cavalier. “We’ll see about that,” he says. “Ah, Red’s back.” He points towards the door, indicating Mike should turn around. 

Remembering Red Neck had been dispatched to fetch someone, Mike turns and almost screams.

“This is Wrecking Ball,” Red Neck says eagerly, “but we call him ‘Wreck’ for short.” 

Mike can see where Wrecking Ball got his name, seeing as he looks like he could demolish an entire high-rise building with one punch. He’s hunched over, the back of his head pressed against the ceiling and for a few moments Mike wonders how the hell he got through the door. 

“With difficulty,” Porter whispers, as though reading Mike’s mind. 

“He’s a troll! An actual, full-blood troll!” Red Neck is excited; his eyes light up like the stars, and he is bouncing on the balls of his feet. Clearly this member of the team is his favourite. 

Wrecking Ball lets out a sigh. “I’m not completely full-blood troll, Red,” he says in a voice that’s remarkably soft considering he probably has the lung capacity of an Olympic swimming pool. “I’m not stupid enough.”

Realising his mouth is open Mike quickly closes it, although he’s unable to tear his wide-eyed stare away from the troll’s hulking figure. He must be about eight or nine feet tall, with arms so long his knuckles scrape the ground and muscles the size of Mike’s whole body. His sludge-green skin is covered in what look like armour plates and his lower jaw juts out, yellowed tusks visible against his meaty top lip. Two short, curved horns protrude from his forehead. Wrecking Ball is a truly terrifying sight, the kind that were he to bump into him on a dark and cold night, Mike is sure he’d violently shit himself on the spot. 

Clapping the troll on the arm fondly, Porter says: “Wreck acts as our muscle, for obvious reasons. If we need someone to intimidate the Enforcers he’ll, uh, make sure they don’t go ‘investigatin’’ where they shouldn’t.” 

Swallowing, Mike forces a smile onto his face as Wrecking Ball shakes his hand (Mike can feel himself bounce on the balls of his feet). “I can imagine it’s difficult to find a long-sleeved shirt that fits,” he quips nervously. 

To his relief everyone – except the twins – laughs. “A nightmare,” the troll confirms.

“It is a bit easier when he’s not fully transformed like now,” Red Neck says. “His arms aren’t quite as long then.” 

“Welcome to the team Mike,” Wrecking Ball says. “It’s always good to have an extra pair of hands, even if the reason why you’re here is grim.” His eyes, small and piggish, fill with sadness and for the first time Mike feels like he’s witnessing remorse comparable to his own. “Still,” the troll adds, “our gain.”

With a farewell to his new teammates, Mike is led back out of the door and to the stairs where they descend another two flights to the bottom level. The ceiling is considerably higher here and a collection of newspapers and dirtied food bowls discarded beside a large pile of floor cushions suggests this is where Wrecking Ball spends most of his time. 

Pushing open one of the double doors ahead of them, Porter reaches through the darkness to flip a light switch. “This is where you’ll be spendin’ the next several months,” he says as the light strips buzz to life. 

If there is one word to describe the room Mike finds himself in, it’s ‘cavernous’. It must be a few times the size of the common room above them, although it has a similar kitchenette with an added water cooler, and a door marked ‘showers’. 

“So, this is a training room?” Mike gapes in awe. 

A wry smile spreads across Porter’s face. “Well we have a few other bits and pieces upstairs, on the first level, where the magic happens, should we say. Red’s domain really. But yes, this is where we do the physical and most of the weapons training.” 

Seeing as the most famous rumours surrounding the Reapers are to do with their incredible skillset, a skillset better than even the best-trained Enforcers, Mike supposes he should’ve foreseen a training facility like this, but he can’t help but stand frozen in absolute wonderment as he takes in his surroundings.

The room contains absolutely everything Mike imagines an assassin would need to hone their skills; an area for ranged weapons training, dummies for practicing hand-to-hand-combat, even an obstacle course – “We are allowed to use the course at the Enforcer’s training centre, but expect to use this one more,” Porter says. There’s a large space covered in soft matting for safely learning to wrestle, several kickbags hanging from the ceiling and a small pile of crash mats which Mike learns is for teaching breakfalls and rolls. Predictably there is also an extensive amount of gym and weight-training equipment, which Mike isn’t relishing. 

“You’re gonna be physiologically assessed by the Enforcers,” Porter explains as they climb the stairs. “They’ll do a whole bunch of tests, determine your level of fitness, how strong your abilities are and how best to manage two different genetic structures – or technically three, in your case. Then they’ll draw up a plan for you; fitness, diet. You name it, they’ll plan it. They’ll make sure it fits around your regular work schedule, of course. Trainin’ is pretty intense, I won’t lie to you, but it’s usually quite quick. I’ll work with you to hone your demonic abilities, teach you your own strengths and how to use them. If this job does anythin’ at all, it’s that it’ll prove what you’re truly capable of.” 

Mike lets out a low whistle. His brain had stopped processing new information quite some time ago so he’s already mentally preparing for the sleepless night ahead of him as it all suddenly hits him. He does however have the presence of mind to realise just how preposterous this situation truly is, and the thought made him laugh again, just as he had done in the interrogation room. 

“Everythin’ OK?” Porter strikes a similar tone to Simmons earlier, although in this case his face doesn’t remain blank; the corner of his mouth twitches up into a half-smile. 

Clutching the handrail with one hand and his screaming abs in the other, Mike waits until he’s calm again to reply. “It’s just- I’m stood here in some underground bunker having just met some ghouls and a troll, been shown a training room straight out of the Hunger Games movie and now a demon is explaining to me about how he’s going to teach me how to use my powers. It’s preposterous.”

Porter nods and chuckles, but it’s a melancholy sound. “What’s preposterous is us even bein’ here in the first place, killin’ our own kind because it’s the law. I understand a lot of us are dangerous, but so are wild animals and you don’t see the government orderin’ a cull of one of those species anymore, do you?” He sighs heavily. “What’s preposterous is that innocent Unnaturals have to die because of us. Things we did. For a few moments Porter stands silently, pensive, but then he snaps out of it and continues up the stairs. “On with the tour!” he chirps, a little too brightly. 

Another knot of discomfort settles in Mike’s stomach, joining the several already there. Just how many Unnaturals innocent of bloodshed were culled for the sake of some crummy legislation? He doesn’t want a statistic, but suspects it’s far higher than it should be (which, to be frank, should be zero). 

Upstairs, one level above the common room, is ‘Red’s domain’, as Porter insists it’s been nicknamed. This floor contains the armoury – a gun-fanatic’s goldmine stocked with every firearm imaginable and a few Mike has never seen before – and the shooting gallery, as well as a briefing room, locker room and a room bursting with computer monitors and technology, presumably home to Red Neck. 

“Whenever you’re out in the field he’ll communicate with you via earpiece.” Porter picks up such an earpiece and holds it up for Mike to see. “We’ll also issue you with some standard tech so he can interface with different systems and manipulate them, like turning off alarms or CCTV setups.”

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Mike simply nods.

“We’ll get a bit more in depth with this level when you’ve passed your first phase of trainin’,” Porter says. “You’ll have to be proficient with a firearm before you can sign one out too. We will issue you with a sidearm, unless you already have one?”

Mike doesn’t, although it’s been legal for almost a decade. Something about carrying a lethal weapon on his person made him uneasy. What if he was mugged and someone later used it in an armed robbery? What if he accidentally shot himself or someone he was close to? It’s far too risky in his eyes, but he’ll have to get used to it now. 

After a few more minutes of perusing the firearms Mike would start training on, he and Porter traipse back up the stairs into the car park. This is probably the most normal-looking area of the whole base and for a few seconds Mike feels like he can trick himself into thinking they’re on a level of some multi-storey car park, maybe in another city, and he’s heading home after a nice day out. But then Porter passes him, looking at him with his red, red eyes and the illusion is broken. The two men, the demon and the half-demon, walk slowly to the SUV that’s straight out of an espionage movie before they climb in and drive back out into the night.


End file.
